


Written In Blood

by PinupGhoul



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Burning, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't read if you're squeamish, F/M, Fire, Knifeplay, Mildly Dubious Consent, Torture, getting off on torture, seriously it's gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 17:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11040984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinupGhoul/pseuds/PinupGhoul
Summary: Ex-librarian and sole survivor of Vault 111, Betty Jean, sets off on a mission to bring down notorious serial-killer Pickman...with unexpected consequences.





	Written In Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Please turn away now if squeamish about blood/violence/gore...then again, if you play Fallout 4, you're probably used to it.

Written In Blood

Betty stabbed a stimpak into her thigh, then slung her pack over her shoulder, taking a stolen moment to catch her breath. The bodies of raiders lay crumpled in the alley, some mere piles of ash smoking beside the bright red door. She braced herself against it, feeling the stretch and sting of her gashes healing up, bruises fading out until she looked good as new. It did little for the dull ache throughout her body, though, the lingering effects of no sleep and too many whacks upside the head with a swatter. Her glasses, cracked across one lens, miraculously stayed put through the battle; a damn good thing, too, since she'd be dead in an instant if she couldn't see. All the traits that suited her just fine as a pre-war librarian—meek demeanor, huge glasses, and no athletic talent—marked her in this world as an easy target.

 

Surely Hancock knew that upon their first meeting, but still he'd decided Betty was a perfect candidate for carrying out missions he himself didn't want to tackle. In the pocket of her road leathers, she tucked the little bundle of notes from her latest prey. This Pickman character, from what evidence she had gathered, lured raiders to a designated hideout by leaving taunting notes on previous victims. And judging by the state of those victims, mutilated, pitiable corpses, whatever lay on the other side of the door was pure hell.  
When the mayor pointed out that the little heart signature at the bottom of the notes was in the victims' blood, she had nearly dropped them. Despite the months awake in the Commonwealth, the shock of gore never fully left her. Even now, rummaging through the carnage for spare stimpaks and anything else of use, her stomach turned. Though that may have had something to do with the sickly-sweet smell of death and decay wafting from under the door.

 

Breath held, she cautiously creaked it open, laser rifle at her hip. Voices in the corridor told her no one had noticed her yet, so she snuck in, pulling the door mostly closed and ducking into a room on her left, all the while on high alert. She whipped around, feeling a presence behind her, and came face-to-face with a severed head impaled on a stake. Its empty eye sockets stared back at her, its mouth twisted into an expression of agony. Her own mouth fell open as she gazed around. Paintings, all in the same concerning shade of red, hung from the walls, meticulously framed and straightened. Not even a speck of dust covered them; either they were fresh, or someone went to all the trouble of maintaining the 'gallery'. She wasn't sure which thought horrified her more.

 

The absolutely putrid smell confirmed it was the latter; if the blood came from the bodies of the raiders, it was far from fresh. Among the carefully arranged piles of heads and limbs, movement caught her eyes, a buzz of motion. Closer inspection revealed the flesh crawled with bloatfly maggots. She gagged, covering her mouth and nose, forcing bile back down. Assuming Pickman maintained this place, she didn't know how he managed to live in this filth. Though, if truly this twisted, perhaps he didn't even notice.

 

One of the raiders ahead certainly did notice, vomiting loudly in the corridor. Betty squeezed her eyes shut, holding still as possible. So far, she'd only seen raiders displayed in the 'art', but that didn't really reassure her that she wouldn't be targeted. After all, dressed in as much ragtag armor as she could pile on, face scarred and hair ratty, she was indistinguishable from them.

 

Peeking around the corner, she saw that of the two men beside the stairs, one leaned against the wall, clutching at his stomach, while the other had his back to her. Laser rifle warm in hand, Betty aimed for the ill man, focusing her sights on his head. One blast, and he fell to the ground in a heap. The other man yelled out, spinning around to look for her. The last thing he saw was the red coil of her weapon.

 

If there were more in here, they would have heard the noise. She ran into position at the bottom of the stairs and reloaded. Little by little, she forced her way through the gallery, ducking into doorways and shooting at whatever came her way. Her arms shook from the weight of the gun and the numb, brutal pace of it all. Her glasses bore red flecks, and her clothes were soaked through with sweat and the blood of strangers. When the building finally fell silent, she took stock of the place, rummaging through drawers and file cabinets. Her split knuckles ached; a stimpak wouldn't go amiss, but she used the last one outside.

 

In one room, to her disgust, stood an iron-frame bed, mattress saturated with blood. A skeleton, some shreds of flesh clinging to its ribs, arched up, handcuffed by each limb. Its pose suggested either orgasm or agony, though Betty suspected very few of the former occurred in a place like this. She shuddered, wiping her bloody hands on the sheet before continuing on toward the basement.

 

_Nothing creepier than a murder palace except a murder palace dungeon,_ she thought to herself. Winding down into the tunnels below, she heard voices at the end of a long hall. She approached carefully, hiding behind a support pillar. Down a set of stairs, perfectly visible from her position, a group of raiders harassed a civilian with his hands up.

 

The heartless violence of her entry weighed heavily upon her; if she could do something to help someone in need, she would. A volley of shots rang out from overhead. Raiders dropped, fast and furious, until it was safe for her to come down from her perch. Breathing fast, she reached the civilian, a well-dressed man who did not look in the least bit fazed by the attack. In fact he seemed amused.

 

She stared into his steely eyes, and suddenly her own widened. _That's him! Pickman._

 

He adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket and sighed in relief. “That was close, thank you.” The even, measured cool tones of his voice betrayed no fear, despite his brush with death.

 

She didn't grace him with good manners. “Why are you doing this? Everyone you've killed...”

 

His mouth tightened into a line of conviction. “Those people deserved worse than death. I merely gave them the opportunity to be worth more than they ever were in life. Tell me, what do you think of my gallery?”

 

_The smug bastard._ “It's horrifying.”

 

He frowned. Her hand went to her weapon instinctively.

 

“No need for all that,” he said, brushing the barrel out of his face dismissively. “Now, if you don't mind, I'm rather busy. Again, I do appreciate your help. In fact...” he reached into his pocket, but she stopped him, jabbing the end of her rifle into his stomach. He raised his hands again, a gesture of surrender. “A gift, nothing more.”

 

She wasn't having it. “Oh, no you don't. You're coming with me.” If he didn't want to get shot in the stomach, he would obey her. With a defeated sigh, he followed her instruction and climbed the stairs. At his raised eyebrow, she nudged him forward, until they both stood in the gallery proper. Still, her gun never left its threatening position.

 

“Ah, so you've been sent to kill me. You aren't a raider, no. So what am I to you? A bounty?”

 

“You're a monster,” she said without hesitation, the stench of rot filling her nose and reminding her exactly why Hancock wanted him gone.

 

He smiled at her, unsettling eyes tracing the blood splattered across her face and clotting in her hair. Stepping back, he did a little turn, gesturing at the corpses of freshly-dead raiders with outstretched arms, as if to say, “Look at your handiwork...are you not also a monster?”

 

She blanched. Anger and guilt bubbled in her chest, fighting toward the surface. He was right, of course. For the second time that day, she fought back vomit. So distracted, she didn't notice as he slid a thin knife from his sleeve. In seconds, a blade was at her throat. He leaned hard against her from the side, close enough she smelled the iron tang of blood, though whether that came from him or from herself, she couldn't fairly say. Her heart thumped and stuttered. If she could just spin around a little, she might be able to slam her shoulder against a wall and dislodge him, but that didn't guarantee her neck would remain intact. In the corner, she spotted the skeleton on the bed and formed an idea. If she could just knock him off and get to her pack...

 

Furrowing her brow, she dug in with all her strength and dove sideways, twisting so Pickman collided with the edge of the bed, falling lengthwise across it. The skeleton crumbled into separate bones under their combined weight, pulling free of the cuffs. Betty slammed her elbow down hard into his sternum, knocking the wind from his lungs. He let out an “oof” sound and curled in on himself to catch his breath. In a rush, Betty ripped a bobby pin from her hair and tried to stop her hand from shaking as she picked the lock on one cuff. It clinked open, and she fastened it around his wrist. He spun around, eyes wide and lips parted in what might have been a curse if he had the breath to swear at her at the moment.

 

She jumped back before he caught her with his knife. He flailed it wildly around with his free arm, class and tact abandoned in a purely animalistic drive for survival. She watched him from a distance, afraid to approach, unsure what came next in the plan. Killing him in cold blood, mostly defenseless, would only prove his point, but she couldn't just let him go free, not after what he'd done. A deeply twisted idea blossomed in her mind. At first, she squashed it down, shocked at herself, disgusted. But then...then she thought of his eerie calm, how unaffected he seemed toward everything he did in the name of art. _Time to make it personal,_ she thought.

 

Her opportunity came as soon as one thrust of the knife sent it flying in her direction, clattering to her feet. His expression softened from rage to fear in an instant. She picked it up, tucking the blade into her belt, bobby pin in hand. Though he kicked and fought, voice returning to curse at her and snarl, she managed to unlock each handcuff and re-lock them around his other arm and both ankles.

 

Now completely helpless, he looked up at her seriously, searching her eyes for mercy.

 

“Not so fun on the other side of the knife, is it?” she asked, holding the weapon aloft and spinning it in her hand, trying to channel all the villainesses from the old holotapes she liked before the war. She dipped it down to trace lightly against his chest, kneeling on the edge of the bed for better control. He twisted away as best he could, but only succeeded in pulling a suit button across the blade. It popped off neatly; Betty set about removing the rest of them. She felt devious, powerful.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked, glaring up at her.

 

“Teaching you a lesson.” The blade flicked up, slicing through the waistcoat and undershirt in one move, baring his chest to the edge of the knife. He clenched his jaw. The neat ponytail he wore pulled loose as he tried to avoid her, dark hair falling back across the filthy sheet. Betty thought to the skeleton in its agony/ecstasy.

 

Slowly, tauntingly, she brought the very tip of the six-inch blade down, pressing into the skin above his heart. He grimaced, but stubbornly refused to react any more than that. The flesh dipped down but did not break as she added pressure, until finally, it split, taking the first half-inch of steel in a smooth glide. He cried out as she tugged it free.  
The sensation of controlling someone's pain, of holding life in her hand, felt so much more intimate than the quick and dirty pull of a trigger. She gasped at the sight of blood running from the small wound. It trickled down his chest, soaking into the tattered edge of the once-white undershirt. He watched her, eyes dark with rage, her own bloody handprint from earlier above his head, imprinted onto the sheet. His fists clenched, he pulled up against the cuffs, but they held firm.

 

As she pressed the knife lightly to his neck, she felt his pulse pounding, watched his chest heaving, every rise and fall forcing another droplet of blood from the little gash. “Please,” he whispered. She slid it up to press under his chin like a straight razor, saw him lick his lips.

 

Sitting back to look at him fully, she raised a lip in revulsion. “You're...you're actually enjoying this, aren't you?” Even if he tried to, he couldn't deny it; the evidence was apparent. “You're sicker than I thought.” _So much for teaching him a lesson._

 

“As fate would have it,” he said breathily, “It is just as fun on the other side of the knife.” He grinned up at her conspiratorially, somehow still managing to act like he had the upper hand. “Wouldn't you agree, Killer?”

 

“Don't call me that!”

 

He only laughed.

 

Despite her better judgment, despite the fact that it would hardly count as punishment, she held the blade to him once more. It traced down the column of his neck, hard and sharp enough to slit a thin stripe down the length, no deeper than a scratch, but enough to sting, to suggest a promise of more pain.

 

Pickman pulled against the cuffs hard, but not away, toward her. The weapon dug only slightly deeper, near his collarbone, and he sighed in frustration. Betty held still, observing the motion of his body, the upward roll toward more pain.

 

If he wanted mercy, she would give it to him. “Hold still.”

 

“You can't leave me here,” he said, shaking his head violently as she ducked out of the room for a brief moment. She returned with a melting white candle from the 'showroom', and a smile.

 

“Oh, I'm not going anywhere,” she threatened, holding the still-burning candle inches from the exposed skin of his stomach. Tilting it just a little, she trailed liquid wax from his navel to his collar, reveling in the hiss that escaped him when the heat met chilled skin.

 

When his tightly-shut eyes opened, they were dilated and wild. His hair fell in strands across his face, which grew red with the effort of remaining somewhat collected. “Again!”

 

She indulged him, tipping wax across his chest, assuring she hit both nipples, along his side, up over his adam's apple. He swallowed hard, tilting his head back to give her better access. Mentally shaking her head at him, she set the candle down on the floor, blowing it out and reaching again for the knife.

 

His eyes gleamed with anticipation. In one smooth move, she slashed his side, along his ribs. Deeper than the previous line, this one immediately welled over with blood, running in rivulets toward the mattress to join that of his past victims. At least five inches long, surely it would leave a permanent scar. Good.  
He honestly moaned at that, deep in his throat, and she felt her breath catch. Curious fingers traveled in the path of her knife, seeking the heat of his spilled blood. She pressed hard with her fingertips along the wound, digging in, glancing between her reddened hand and his rapturous expression.

 

“Oh, gods,” he managed in a broken voice, before trembling and choking back a moan.

 

Betty's bloody fingertip dipped down to his hipbone, brushing over his now-spent cock, and traced a little heart over the skin there.

 

He laughed manically as she stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Quite the artist,” he smirked.

 

Betty wiped the sweat from her brow, accidentally smearing her forehead with blood. She returned his expression with one of her own. “I think I'll leave my masterpiece displayed right here.”

 

Panic quickly overtook bliss. “You wouldn't.”

 

“Oh, but I would. I'm a monster after all, just like you.” Not looking back, she grabbed the key from his jacket pocket, and left Pickman and his gallery behind her.


End file.
